It feels important, necessary even, that I write. I know it doesn’t need to be public like this, but blogs have always been my outlet of choice, even way back in high school ten plus years ago.
My birthday was Wednesday and I turned 30. All year, I’ve been so excited for 30. I don’t know if it’s because I was genuinely excited to be out of my 20’s, which were just riddled with bad decisions and even worse moods, or trying to buck the system which says when women turn 30 they’re on some sort of downhill slide. I told everyone I would be turning 30, but on the actual day, I mentioned to my class that it was my 30th and I got crickets in reply. A quiet awkwardness. I felt their sadness for me, in turning 30, saw it on their flush 20-yr-old faces. And at that moment, I realized that my opinion of 30 doesn’t matter if the world still thinks 30 is old.
Everyone else’s opinion of me simultaneously means everything and nothing. Sometimes I feel fat and ugly and worthless and I know everyone knows. And other times, I feel so full of wonderful energy, covered up in my quirky style, well-placed early morning makeup, and quick-witted comments that I know everyone else must see how amazing and beautiful I really am.